


Ours

by the_girl_with_all_the_fandoms



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Christmas, F/M, Johnlock Fluff, Johnlock Smut, M/M, Slightly Smutty, but a little bit, not loads, occasional sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-25
Updated: 2014-03-15
Packaged: 2018-01-06 00:25:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,235
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1100303
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_girl_with_all_the_fandoms/pseuds/the_girl_with_all_the_fandoms
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-Reichenbach, pre-series 3 release. John and Sherlock are together. Hints at Irene/Sherlock relationship. A special christmas gift</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. One

John was sat on the couch in 221B, watching as Sherlock diligently poured over textbooks that were scattered over the desk. It had been 3 months, 8 days, 13 hours and 26 minutes - no 27 minutes – since Sherlock had returned home. The morning that John had finally decided he was going to go and see an estate agent and put the flat up for sale. Mycroft had agreed to come by and remove all security cameras that had dotted the flat since the two moved in together. Even after Sherlock had gone, John knew Mycroft kept up the surveillance, probably, John now knew, because Sherlock had asked him to keep tabs so that he could be notified if John was to do anything ‘stupid’. And every time it was skated over John said he would never have done anything of the sort because he truly believed Sherlock wouldn’t have died. John had been faithful from the very moment the accusations had poured in, he stood by Sherlock and he stood by Sherlock's memory, knowing that if anyone could pull off a miracle like this, it would be Sherlock. But deep down there was a nagging guilt, John had had moments when believing in Sherlock became too much to handle and he just wanted out. It seemed that by ‘coincidence’ whenever one of these moments occurred Mrs. Hudson or Lestrade or Molly or even Mycroft a few times would pop round and just silently help John through it.

He still couldn’t believe it though, he still struggled to comprehend how it had been possible for Sherlock to have allowed him to be alone for three years! Three whole years John had spent simply laying there, wishing and hoping Sherlock would return to him one day. And then he did. John had open the door of the flat, fully set on going to the estate agents and putting the flat up for sale. And Sherlock was stood there. In his dark coat and his silk shirts with his cheekbones flushed and his eyes a colour of perfect. Just stood on the doormat. John had shut the door immediately thinking he was going crazy but when Sherlock opened it and smacked it into his face he knew he wasn’t.

“Right yes, I’m not dead you see.” That was all he said. Just made his way up to his bedroom, leaving John stood flabbergasted in the living room. John had pounded up the stairs, adrenalin coursing through his body.  
“What the FUCK is going on?! Sherlock. Is that…Sherlock? It can’t…you were…I saw you…I took your pulse…you were FUCKING DEAD SHERLOCK!”  
“Yes…erm, sorry? You see Moriarty was being difficult and that was the only option really. It’s mostly fine now though, but I don’t doubt we’ll have some of Moriarty’s old spies looking at us. I took the big ones down, Mycroft caused the web to fall in on itself.”  
“No. No, I’m sorry but no. This cannot happen. You cannot just walk in here after three years with that explanation and expect me to accept it.”

Then Sherlock did something he rarely did. He had taken Johns face into his hands and forced John to look deep into his own eyes.  
“I’m sorry John. I really am. It was the only option. Please believe me, I’m begging you.”  
“Sherlock Holmes never begs.” It was childish, but John had been too fuelled with anger at the time to care. That scathing remark was really a cover to stop John from crying.  
“This one does.” John had turned and walked out the door. Though he fancied Sherlock might have cried for a short while he thought it was exceptionally unlikely. He had gone for a walk in the park to cool himself off. He had adjusted to the idea of Sherlock being back, filled with a temporary glee for a few moments at one point and realised that Sherlock had probably been exceptionally stressed, hurt and worried over the tree years as well. If Sherlock didn’t want to go into detail then they wouldn’t. When he got back Sherlock was already in the kitchen with a temporary lab set up. They said hello but didn’t mention anything.

That was how their first meeting had occurred. The next day Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, Molly, Mycroft and several of the Scotland Yard senior officers were called round to Baker Street and by the end of the day Sherlock's name was cleared. A few back at Scotland Yard were both devastated and stunned as to how Sherlock had survived. Donovan had point blank refused to accept his existence until they worked a case together. As their adjusted back to normal life they found that the dynamic had changed. Something had simultaneously brought them closer together and torn them apart. They were no longer as comfortable around each other, but found parting moments unbearable. Even Sherlock had agreed when John suggested they never be without each other unless in absolute emergencies. And then one night after a particularly thrilling case had been solved and tensions were running high the two had made their way back to 221B, opened a bottle of wine to celebrate and one thing had led to another until the both awoke in Sherlock's bed, covered in semen with terrible hangovers. They had never made love before, never even hinted at it. Though neither could remember the night, it didn’t matter. They were together now and John would be damned if he was to let Sherlock slip from his grasp again. And so he didn’t, from that moment on they remained by each other’s side for better and for worse.

It was nearing Christmas and the tree sticking out of the corner already had presents under it. John was looking forward to wearing his new sweaters that he had acquired over the winter period. As he watched the snow fall out of the window, he had a sudden urge to revert back to childhood and build snowmen and make snow angels. But he soon remembered that was not allowed, he was nearing 40, with no children and no married partner and you couldn’t just go and make snow angels as and when you wished. But he still wanted to get out for some moment of the Christmas holidays.  
“Sherlock please, I want to go to the Christmas party. Lestrade invited us and we haven’t been out since…you know-”  
“John, Donovan and Anderson will ruin it. Do you really want our first Christmas together, properly together, to be ruined?”  
“When you were gone they used to invite me out all the time. Even Sally and Anderson were vaguely nice.” His voice went quiet, he almost willed himelf not to say the next bit but Sherlock needed to know. “Without Greg I’m not sure I wouldn’t have jumped off too. I owe it to them to go, and you owe it to me.”  
John saw regret flicker in Sherlock’s eyes and knew he had would. He heard Sherlock grumble “Fine.” before sinking back into the comfy sofa.

“You wouldn’t have jumped you know, I would have stopped you. I would have been there John.”

The words were barely more than a whisper but John heard them perfectly. Suddenly he found tears in his eyes and stood to cross the room in three broad steps. He wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s slight frame and smelt the scent of musk and chemicals and just Sherlock and knew that no argument could ever break them apart for more than a few moments ever again.

Sherlock turned to face him and John felt his face been cupped between the bony fingers. He opened his eyes to stare into Sherlock’s own, the mix of blue and green and yellow that had turned glassy. He felt as if Sherlock was reading every single thing inside John’s soul, butterflies turned in his stomach and he felt a tightening in his groin. Obviously this showed because the glassy look in Sherlock's eyes cleared and was replaced by a burn. Pupils dilated and suddenly their mouths were joined together in a rush of tongues and heat.

John felt himself being pulled towards the bedroom. Since Sherlock had returned they slept only in Sherlock’s room, John had taken too after that awful day just to hold the scent of Sherlock close to him. They were pulling off each other’s close in a frenzy to feel the rub of skin on skin. Stumbling up the stairs and into the bedroom with a crash as the door banged into the walls, they broke for a moment just to look at other.

“I love you.”

“Don’t.”  
John knew it was pushing Sherlock’s boundaries saying it before they were about to have sex. But he didn’t care, it was true and Sherlock needed to know. Poor Sherlock needed to hear those words more than anybody else needed to hear those words. But he allowed it to drop, in an attempt to lighten the mood he asked whether Sherlock wanted to top or bottom. In reply Sherlock crossed the room in a few small strides, pushed John onto the mattress and straddled him.

Wet, hot mouths joined again and John felt Sherlock's hardness rub against his stomach. With a gasp he pulled down Sherlock’s tight white boxer briefs and gently took hold of the head of Sherlock’s penis. He made small circular motions just underneath the head with the pad of his thumb and simultaneously sucking on Sherlock’s neck. Sherlock would be covered in bruises by the morning if John could help it. He heard Sherlock begin to moan his name, his deep voice reverberating around the room. Falling down onto the bed, he raised his hips to allow Sherlock to pull off his own boxers. Their wet skin slid together, almost crackling with a burning heat of static electricity that was surrounding them. John felt Sherlock's mouth encase the head of his cock and struggled to keep himself together. The moist warmth engulfed all of his cock in one effortless suck and then retreated to the head again. John felt a bony, smooth hand take the place of the warm mouth and felt the concentrated wetness slide over his testicles.  
“Sherlock!” He gasped, air filling his lungs in a cool rush.

The mouth returned to his cock and rapidly began to suck. John grabbed a handful of the curls, now soaked in sweat, and began to thrust into his mouth. He came in a burst of utter delight, spewing down the back of Sherlock's throat and felt the repeated constrictions as Sherlock swallowed.  
“Well fuck me, that was good.” His eyes remained shut but he knew Sherlock had a smirk on his face.  
“Well correct me if I’m wrong John, but I did just that. And also…I’m never wrong.”  
“Oh fuck off, you know what I mean.” He laughed, but the haze of post-orgasm was too strong for him to care enough.

They curled up together under the duvet, still connected by skin and listened to the sounds of their heartbeats beating seamlessly in time together.  
Waking the next morning, John felt a coolness surround his body and cocooned himself within the duvet, breathing in the scent of Sherlock that hung in the air. God he was happy he was back, though the constant questions still circled his mind of what Sherlock had done in the years of their separation. Even after their reunion Sherlock refused to answer questions about that period of time, and quite frankly John was just happy he was back. Though he would love some answers, he daren’t push Sherlock too far. Maybe once they had settled into their relationship more, maybe once Sherlock was comfortable with the way their life was. He felt Sherlock begin to stir next to him so in an attempt not to startle him, gently climbed out of bed and went to make him a cup of tea.

The kettle bubbled away, and the teabags fell into the mugs with the ever-so-satisfying puh sound that John loved. Since Sherlock had returned everything was perfect again. The little things mattered again.  
“Do you really have to make so much noise?” A mess of curly brown hair and a rumpled blue dressing gown appeared in the doorway, evidently disapproving of Johns enjoyment of the little things.  
“Good morning to you too. I was making you tea. Go back to bed.” His heart swelled with love, Sherlock rarely looked more beautiful than on a morning with the sunlight creating a halo around his body, it seemed to blur out the grumpiness and make him even more angelic.  
“No, I’ve slept for several hours already. My body is exhausted from lack of stimulation, I need to do something John!”  
“Hmmm, do something? Why not do me?” John tried to make his voice as sexy and possible, combing the attempted line with a wink.  
“I need a case John. Something mentally stimulating. Also, don’t wink, it doesn’t work on you.” And with that Sherlock left the room, his dressing gown just missing the door handle in the graceful way that only Sherlock can.  
“Well, I hope you get a case soon too Mr Grumpy” John said aloud in frustration.


	2. Chapter 2

The music was blaring away, the disco ball was rotating above the dance floor and John was watching Sherlock stand awkwardly in the doorway. After repeatedly asking him to dance and being repeatedly rejected he had given up and gone to talk to Greg, but watching him just stood there made his heart ache like he had never known. Checked his watch, 9.09, too early to leave? The party started at 7.00, they had made it here for exactly 8.00 thanks to Sherlock and they had said hello to everyone they were supposed to. John had handed out the Christmas presents and graciously accepted those given to them, he remembered how much of a nuisance Sherlock could be when it came to presents. They had drunk a little bit, kissed under the mistletoe and John had danced. All in all, John decided, they had done as was expected and could leave.  
“Finished your deduction then?” He heard the silky voice in his ear.  
“I was not, I was just, erm, just thinking about stuff.” He was still flustered by how easily Sherlock could read him.  
“Terrible John, utterly terrible. Let’s go home.”  
“What was terrible? But yes, let’s go home.” Sherlock didn’t answer his question and just walked out of the door.  
“Sherlo-” John began to shout “Oh why bother, I’ll just do it.”  
He said goodbye to everyone, giving the excuse that he was tired, but in return received the knowing, rather sympathetic look that told him they all knew exactly why they were leaving. Walking out of the door and down the stairs, John found Sherlock waiting patiently inside a cab.

“Your lying, John.”  
“I haven’t said anything…”  
“No, not you are lying. Your lying was terrible. Back at the party. Terrible.”  
“Oh, ah, okay. Yes, well, we aren’t all master geniuses such as yourself.”  
“No John, nobody is quite like me.”  
John got out of the cab, leaving Sherlock to pay the driver for once in his bloody life. But just as he entered 221B and heard the cab door shut behind Sherlock, he heard the whisper of words.  
“No one is quite like you either, John Watson.”

The next morning he stretched out to feel Sherlock's warm body under his fingers, but instead felt only the cold bed. Shrugging on a dressing gown and pulling on some Christmas socks he padded down the few steps into the living room expecting to see Sherlock either glued to his computer screen or attempting another of his bizarre ‘experiments’, but the room was empty and cold, just like the bed. After doing a brief search of the flat and finding no sign of Sherlock, John resigned himself to a lazy morning with a cuppa and some Christmas drivel on TV.

At about 4 o clock the door burst open with a gush of cold air and Sherlock swept into the room. His cheeks were rosy and his nose was red, but there was a fire in his eyes. John knew that look. The thrill of a new case. With anticipation his own heart began to beat. He hadn’t seen Sherlock like this since his return. He opened his mouth to say hello, but instead found his lips smothered and the air sucked from his lungs.

He felt his body melt under Sherlock's touch, his fingers entwined themselves in Sherlock's air and he gave a short, sharp tug down. Nothing, nothing turned John on more than to hear the slight gasp escape from Sherlock. In return he was roughly pinned back into the sofa, his clothes stripped and strewn somewhere, probably not to be found again for weeks amongst all the mess that still cluttered the living room.

Though the room was cold, the heart from Sherlock's body kept John warm. It was a feeling he loved. Winter sex, better than anything. You needed to be close to each other to keep each other warm, but it needed to be quick and rough and fast to generate enough heat.

He felt Sherlock leave him momentarily and so reached down for his penis. Imagining it was Sherlock's had doing the work had kept John going before, it would not fail him now. Suddenly Sherlock returned and with an almost scientific precision, slid his carefully lubed-up arse down onto John’s dick. That feeling was enough to tip anyone over the edge, biting down on Sherlock's shoulder blade kept John from orgasming instantly. It was a problem he had struggled with from losing his virginity aged 17 in the basements on his then-girlfriends house. He had found that thinking bck to moments like that helped to stop the rush of feeling towards his groin.

It was almost as if Sherlock could sense when he had reganed control of himself, because instantly as John was about to thrust up, Sherlock pushed down, sinking imself deeper into Johns lap. They moved together, not perfectly but in close synchronisation with each other. Sherlock pulled Johns right hand down onto his cock and with their hands clasped brought Sherlock to orgasm. The moment John felt Sherlock muscles clench around his penis still embedded inside Sherlock's arse he too came. It was rare that this happened, they had only ever come together a few times before. John cherished the moment, right up until the moment the door swung open.

“Hello Sherlock. John.” Mycroft entered the room, with only a slight raise of the eyebrows and sat in the arm chair opposite the two of them.  
“Mycroft, erm, a moment please?” He felt his face burn red, though he knew Mycroft probably still had a few cameras in the flat, this was a completely different situation.  
“Oh John, please. I practically raised Sherlock, there is nothing he can hide from me, I have seen his body more times than even you.”  
“Yes well, you did not raise me.” John looked to Sherlock for help, his eyes pleading with him to reason with his brother.  
“Mycroft just avert your eyes for a moment.”  
“Sherlock, I really believe that to be unne-“  
“MYCROFT.”

Sherlock rarely raised his voice, and certainly never due to anger, but he did for John. John sent him a silent message of thanks and quickly pulled on his clothes. He knew the semen would dry and stain, but that couldn’t be worse than this bloody situation.

“Thank you Mycroft.”  
“What do you want?” Sherlock was barely on amicable terms with his brother as it was, but this seemed to have pushed something inside him.  
“Really now, I raised you to have better manners than that, Sherlock.”  
“Either explain or leave, I have better things to do with my time.”  
“Ah yes, that new case of yours. Anyway, as you wish. I believe you to be still in contact with Miss Adler, am I correct?”  
“Erm, sorry, Irene? Irene Adler?” John could never keep up with the Holmes brothers.  
“That is none of your business.”  
“Sherlock, do not start. I need to know. She could be in danger.”  
“The last time you spoke to her, you wanted her to be in danger.”  
“Yes well, she is more important now and needs protecting. Are you in contact with her?”  
“Danger? What kind of danger?”  
“Not anymore, no, you forbade it remember?”  
“Sherlock…you continued to stay contact with her?”  
“You never do as I ask though Sherlock, do you? Get in touch with her, let her know they are coming.”

Mycroft left with room with the same smooth efficiency that he entered it.

“What was he talking about Sherlock? What kind of danger? Why were you in contact with her? Are you still? Why are you lying to us?” John knew it was too many questions, but he couldn’t find the right one to ask. He turned to look at Sherlock who had still not answered but found him with the glaze over his eyes that John had grew to know as the ‘mind-palace’ look.

“Oh bugger. Fuck it. I’m going out. Text me if you need me.” He grabbed his coat and left the flat. Anger swelling inside his body, why wouldn’t Sherlock have told him if he was still in contact with Irene Adler? Why was he still lying to him and hiding the truth after all this time? Why wouldn’t he just be open and honest with him?

“Fucking fuck.” He said aloud, no one was around to hear so it didn’t matter.

The bells began to chime nine o clock and with almost uncanny, impeccable timing white flakes of snow began to drift around him. They settled on the ground and created a blanket that hushed the normal, busy sound of London. The anger began to dissipate from his body, he knew none of it mattered. And all he had to do was ask Sherlock and he would get answers. Just ask him, just ask him. John repeated it as a mantra on his way back to the flat.

Opening the door, he expected to see Sherlock still sat there, having not moved since he left. But he was confronted with a dark flat, no need to check this time. He knew Sherlock wouldn’t be there. Instead he went upstairs, stripped of his clothes, threw the boxers in the bin and climbed into bed.

“Please come back.” 

He whispered to the night, just as he had done every night since Sherlock had thrown himself from the top of the building.

“I hope you’re back in time for Christmas.”


	3. Chapter 3

It was Christmas Eve and Sherlock still wasn’t home. John had hardly stepped out of bed, it felt too empty, too much like the years without Sherlock had. He could still remember Sherlock’s tentative brushes over his hands, still remember the feel of them melded together, still taste Sherlock on his lips. He was desperate. Desperate to go back, to get him, to never leave his side again.

He heard the doorbell ring, though it obviously wasn’t Sherlock, there was still a flutter of hope in his chest. Opening the door he was confronted with Molly and Greg in festive jumpers holding bags of shopping.

“Hi mate, Mrs. Hudson let us know, thought we should pop round and just check you’re alright.” Lestrade had that look in his eyes, that concern and care that made you feel safe and comforted. “Brought you some shopping too, didn’t think you would have been out of the flat much.”  
“Right erm, yes. Come in, come in. I’ll put the kettle on.”

Molly bustled in, chattering away about how excited she was for Christmas and how lucky they were that it was set to snow this year. John felt grateful to have her around, it had made things a lot easier before and she was a comforting presence.

“I’ll put this shopping away John, you two sit down and have a chat. Catch up.”

John gestured to the couch and then sat on Sherlock's chair opposite Lestrade. The scent of Sherlock encased around him and he forgot to listen for a moment.

“-been a great help after the divorce. She’s a star isn’t she?”  
“Huh? Sorry, who is?”  
Lestrade laughed and shook his head before continuing his story.  
“Molly. I was saying that after the divorce she’s really been there for me, we’ve become quite close recently. There’s something about her that’s really attractive, never noticed it before though.”  
“Yes. Yes. Sorry about all that, the divorce and all. I know its been months, but still, are you alright?”  
“Yeah, really I am. It was tough at the start, but everything’s much better now.”  
“Good, good. Well I’m glad.”

Molly came in carrying a tray with a pot of tea, three mugs and a plate of biscuits. She set it on the coffee table, on top of the mess of newspaper cuttings and old data reports, before pouring out the tea and sitting on the couch, next to Lestrade. Very close to Lestrade, John noticed, closer than a friend would.

They chatted about Christmas and work and the state of the world, but almost out of habit didn’t mention Sherlock. Then after three pots of tea and a packet of biscuits Molly and Greg took to leave, pulling on jumpers, coats, hats, scarves and gloves before making their way out into the dusky evening. As they set off down the street to hail a taxi it began to softly snow and John watched as Molly tried to catch snowflakes whilst Lestrade gently laughed in the adoring way that a smitten teenager would.

John went back into 221B and made his way up to the bedroom. Though he was happy they had stopped by, he was now exhausted and just wanted to sleep for a week. He was angry at Sherlock, angry that he would take off and leave without a word, angry that he wouldn’t let him know where he had gone, angry that it was Christmas in a few hours and he still wasn’t back.

He stood in front of the mirror as he undressed, pulling layer after layer over his head and dropping in on the floor until he was topless in his jeans. He traced the scar tissue just above his hip and the small scars the dotted his shoulders and arms. The remaining memories of bullets scraping by, fragments of metal cutting at his skin as things exploded around him. He pulled on some pyjama bottoms and climbed into his bed, absent-mindedly he began to caress the scars that covered his body.

He began to think about Sherlock, about his dark fluffy hair and his bright eyes that shown with an arrogant cleverness but that was still adorably endearing. Johns hand moved to trace his lips, remembering the taste of Sherlock on them and how passionate the kiss had been. Suddenly he began to feel himself engorge and swell against his pyjamas. Biting his lips, John moved his hand down and tugged his penis out of his trousers, just enough to reach it comfortably. He began to slowly move his hand up and down, then gently massaged the head. He felt pre-cum drip out and used it as a lubricant to begin to move his hand more forcefully. Thinking about how good it would be if it was Sherlock doing it to him he could hardly contain himself. With a few final tugs John felt himself ejaculate and bit the inside of his lip so hard that he drew blood.

Grabbing a few tissues from the packet lying on the bedside table he cleaned himself up and then dropped the tissues on the ground. John cocooned himself inside their thick duvet and imagined Sherlock was spooning around him. He was almost able to trace the lean, wiry muscles against his own toughened body. He could almost feel Sherlock’s penis pressing between his bum cheeks, not wanting anything but to stay safe there. He almost heard Sherlock whispering in his ear “I’m back, it’s okay, I’m back, I love you, I’m back, I‘m not leaving again!” as he already had done so many times that day. John felt himself drifting off into sleep, still with Sherlock’s voice repeating itself again and again into his ear.

“It’s okay John, I’m back, I’m here, I’m sorry.” John vividly dreamt of Sherlock whispering into his ear and subconsciously pushed back to feel the warmth of his body. Then he felt warmth cocoon around him and his eyes shot open. Sherlock was really there, whispering into his ear.

“HOW FUCKING DARE YOU? YOU BASTARD!” He leapt out of bed with the agility of a soldier, ready to attack at any given moment.  
“No, John, please. You don’t understand.”  
“Don’t understand? No, how could I? You didn’t fucking bother to explain you twat. You just left. You left me again. At fucking Christmas!”  
“I had to John, I had to. Please just let me-“  
“Let you explain? No. You can fuck right off you fucking twat.”  
“John, stop swearing, you’re better than that.”  
“Oh really. I assure you I am not. I mean, how fucking could you? You just left. What the fuck was going through your mind? Did you even think of me?”  
“Of course! I thought about you the whole time. I did it all for you John.”  
“Oh you know what? Just fuck…I can’t fucking…fuck!”

John stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind him. Once in the kitchen he felt the hot tears pool out of his eyes and stream down his face. He was crying from anger and from relief and from hurt. He began to make a cup of tea, but as soon as he felt the hard, cold mug in is hand he was filled with a burning rage. Lobbing the mug across the room as hard as he could, he let out a roar that turned into a sob. Watching the mug splinter against the wall and shatter into black and white shards felt almost therapeutic and suddenly he found himself smashing mug after mug after mug.

He raised his arm for the thirteenth time when he felt a strong grasp around his wrist and he suddenly collapsed to the floor in a fit of tears. Sherlock didn’t say a word, he just cuddled him tightly, gently stroking John’s hair and rubbing a circle on his thigh. When John’s tears subsided, Sherlock continued to hold him, their breath became evenly matched and they didn’t move a muscle. They watched the sunrise together, saw the light burst through the glass, outlining the snowflakes and frost that had frozen on the window.

“Merry Christmas, Sherlock.”

“Merry Christmas, John.”

“I’m sorry for smashing the mugs, we should clean it up. And apologise to Mrs. Hudson.”

“Yes, but don’t worry I’ll do it. I’m sorry, for everything. I promise it won’t happen again. Not ever.”

They looked deep into each other’s eyes and John was filled with love once more, he knew that no matter what they were meant to be together and for better or for worse they would make it work.

John leant in and their lips met with a chapped, dry kiss. The kiss deepened but still neither moved, it was not a sexual kiss. It was a loving kiss. It was an apology and a promise. It was the kiss of soulmates.

They pulled apart and Sherlock gave his little, smug smile.

“Go have a shower, cool off, get dressed. I’ll tidy up here. I mean it doesn’t really matter since its only us today.”  
“Remember Mrs. Hudson is coming for lunch.”  
“Oh yes, but shes family anyway.”  
“And I think Molly and Lestrade might pop by also, but they’ll probably text first.”  
“Ah, have they finally told people? I’ve been wondering how long it would take them.”  
“No Sherlock, they haven’t. Don’t say anything. Don’t make it awkward. They’re both good friends of yours remember. Think about everything they’ve done for you. Just don’t, not today, not on Christmas.”  
“Oh fine, now go. Go get ready.”

John went upstairs and climbed into the shower. He turned the heat up and felt the hot water steam the anger away from his body. He washed his hair and used the new shower gel Sherlock liked. Then he turned the heat up to almost painful and sat down. Feeling the water run over his head and down his back was all he could concentrate on. No thoughts of how terribly, terribly depressed he had felt when Sherlock had left. No thoughts of why he did it, or what spurred him to do it. He pushed Irene Adler away from him. For now he was willing the accept that Sherlock would tell him when the time was right.

When the pain got unbearable and he was beginning to develop a headache, John turned the water onto cold, a habit he had developed. He didn’t know why he did it. There was probably some psychological reasoning behind it, but John didn’t really care that much.

He knotted a towel around his waist and made the short journey from the bathroom to the bedroom. Spraying on deodorant and some nice aftershave, he allowed is body and hair to air-dry before getting dressed; choosing his red and blue jumper over a dark blue shirt and black jeans. Opting for red socks to complete the ensemble, he turned to look in the mirror again. He was getting a little fat, but it was a nice little pouch, nothing unattractive. If he pulled his neck far enough back he gained a double chin, but who didn’t?

“You look good Watson, go get ‘im” He muttered allowed, and felt like a twat the moment the words had left his mouth.

He softly padded down the stairs and walked into the living room. Sat on the sofa was Molly and Greg, thighs touching ever so slightly. Mrs. Hudson appeared from the kitchen wearing an apron and with a dusting of flour on her nose and shoulders. Then the door to the flat swung open and Johns sister, Harry, burst through clutching a bottle of champagne. She gave him a smooch on the cheek then said hello to everyone else.

Suddenly John felt arms entwine behind him.

“Sherlock, what is all this?”  
“Christmas John. Christmas the way you like it.”

John blushed a little, he loved it when Sherlock did little things like this. But before anyone could notice, Harry thrust a glass of bubbly into each of their hands and grabbed Sherlock into a bear hug, her curly blonde hair almost swallowing his entire head.

“Thank you for inviting me, couldn’t have dealt with another Christmas with fucking mum again.” “No problem, it was the least I could do.”

They all sat down around the coffee table with Molly had neatly cleared and talked loudly, the way families do at Christmas time. Mrs. Hudson kept popping into the kitchen to check on the food, occaisionally accompanied by Harry getting another bottle of alcohol. She caught Johns glance after the third time.

“Don’t worry little brother, it’s just a few drinks. I’m keeping myself in check.”  
“I’m not your little brother, I’m older than you!”  
“Yeah, but you’re short so…”

The rest of the crowd caught the last part and laughed loudly, it was music to Johns ears. Lestrade’s deep bellow, Molly’s cute little giggle, Sherlock's silent chuckle. It sounded perfect. There was no one and nothing that could make this a better Christmas. He had never been happier.

“I’m glad you’re happy. It’s all that I ever want.” Sherlock whispered into his ear, his hot breath tickling Johns neck.

“I am happy. Thank you. Thank you so much.” He smiled, filled with a complete sense of joy.

“I love you.”


	4. Chapter 4

Clearing away the dishes from the Christmas mean M.rs Hudson called into the living room, asking for someone to tell her one of the terrible Christmas jokes from the crackers John had bought.

“What do you get if you cross two elephants with a fish?” Molly willingly obliged and silenced the group to listen.

“I don’t know, what do you get?”

“A pair of swimming trunks.” Molly broke down in laughter whilst the rest of the group groaned loudly.

“Christmas jokes are supposed to be bad, it’s meant to ‘bring the family together’ as they can connect over how bad the jokes are.” Sherlock muttered. 

Once Mrs. Hudson was done in the kitchen she asked if anyone would like another drink, when the answer was a unanimous no she gave everyone a kiss and went off to visit her friends across the road, promising to be back in ‘just a pop’.

“Yes well, we should be off too probably. Got to see our own families, thanks for a lovely day mate.” Greg stood up to shake Johns hand, gesturing to Molly to get her coat.  
“Ah okay, yes, well thank you for coming. Great to see you again. Have a nice night.”

In the middle of coats swishing and people hugging and kissing the doorbell rang. There was a sudden stillness in the room, then John groaned.

“Bloody hell, a client, on Christmas! Don’t they understand we need a break?”

“It might not be a client, John.” Molly gave one of her pathetically hopeless smiles, always trying to keep the mood optimistic.

“Who else rings the doorbell?”

“I’ll leave you to it, get back to my hotel too. We’ll send them up, don’t bother coming down yet, just get the place a bit more presentable.” Harry quickly put her coat over her arm and gave both John and Sherlock a kiss on the cheek.

John looked at the living room, it was a mess. There were glasses on the table, wrapping paper in a huge pile under the archway to the kitchen, party popper streamers covering the room. Together they quickly just moved everything into the kitchen with John muttering under his breath angrily.

“Well they can just get a bloody grip can’t they. So what if it isn’t perfect. We aren’t even meant to be working. We should put a sign up Sherlock.”

Suddenly they heard a gasp from downstairs and heard footsteps running frantically back towards them.

“COME DOWN NOW!”

John looked towards Sherlock who was making no attempt to move. 

“Oh for crying out loud, they’ve probably got hypothermia or something. Just wait here.”

He stomped down the stairs, half way down he could hear a woman breathing heavily and began to run.

But he was entirely unprepared for the sight that confronted him. On the doorstep to 221B was Irene Adler. Gaunt and grey, she looked deathly ill. In her arms was a bundle of blankets.

“She’s refusing to be moved.” Greg said gravely.

John bent down to check her pulse. He could hardly feel it. Her breath wasn’t warm in his ear. But frozen cold. She looked to be right on the edge of death.

“Oh Miss Adler. Someone get Sherlock.”

“No.” She whispered in his ear. “I don’t…want…him to see…me like…this.” Each word was fainter than the last.

“Just take it…ask…him…he will explain.”

John heard Molly begin to cry behind him, heard Greg comfort her in his deep baritone voice. Then he realised he was on the verge of tears himself. To see The Woman, who was so strong, so powerful, removed to this pile of bones covered in a thin layer of translucent skin, crumpled on his doorstep.

She pushed the bundle of blankets into Johns arms, along with an envelope and opened her mouth to speak. But before even a sound could leave, her breath slipped from her   
and her eyes glazed over.

He felt something hard inside the blankets and pulled them back to look inside. He nearly dropped it when he saw what was inside.

A baby.

Maybe a few months old, at most.

Curly black hair, dull blue eyes, severely malnourished and with a high chance of death.

“CALL AN AMBULANCE NOW!”

Whilst Molly began to protest, explaining an ambulance couldn’t help.

“She’s already dead John.”

"Call. A. Bloody. Ambulance."

Greg responded to the urgency in Johns voice instantly. There was a reason he was DCI and it was that.

Harry peered over Johns shoulders and gasped loudly.

“Holy fucking hell. That’s a bloody shock.”

John clutched the blankets tighter around the baby, attempting to give it all the warmth possible.

It seemed like eternity waiting for the ambulance to turn up, and it all that time no one moved. It didn’t cross any of their minds to inform Sherlock, nor did it cross his to go downstairs and check what was going on.

Then they heard the siren and Molly turned and ran upstairs, reappearing moments later pulling Sherlock, clutching his coat and scarf.

John finally convinced the paramedics to allow himself and Sherlock to come in the ambulance with the baby and The Woman.

He promised to call and inform everyone of the developments. Then within moments they were on their way to Bart’s. 

Sherlock sat in silence the whole way, stunned probably. Highly likely he was trying to deduce what happened and how he was involved. Then John looked over at him, staring out of the window. In the reflection John saw what was a speck of dust on Sherlock cheek. But it moved, crawling slowly down his cheek.

With what felt like a punch to the gut, he realised Sherlock was crying.

In absolute silence he pulled Sherlock into a hug, holding him tight. He didn’t care about the feeling of wetness on his neck, of the moistness of Sherlock's breath against his ear. He only cared that Sherlock knew he was still loved and it would be okay.

They arrived at the hospital in 6 minutes, and from there everything was a rush. John was so concerned about Sherlock he paid little attention to what was happening around him.

He still couldn’t quite work out why the adrenalin hadn’t kicked in like it usually did. Usually that helps him to stay alert and focused, but it hadn’t for this case, so everything was a daze.

Irene Adler was taken downstairs to the morgue, Molly would later ask for special dispensation to not have to examine the body. Sherlock would ask for special dispensation to be allowed to examine her body, be denied and then break in.

The baby was taken up to the paediatric ward to be placed in a NICU and closely monitored. The doctors promised to inform John and Sherlock of the developments, but that it was likely they should go home and come back tomorrow.

Just when John was about to encourage Sherlock to leave, he spoke for the first time since the ambulance had arrived.

“Go home, I’ll be back soon.”

“No way, I’m not leaving you. We’ve getting a taxi home, come on.”

“John please, I need to ask them something.”

John saw the pain in his eyes and remembered how much Irene Adler had meant to Sherlock.

“I’ll get the taxi, you have 30 minutes, don’t you dare leave me again.” He pulled him into a hug again, felt Sherlock's stiff body melt against his before pushing him away.

John climbed into the first taxi available.

“Just turn on the meter, we might be waiting a while but I can’t stand another moment in there.”

It turned out they didn’t need 30 minutes, because in 12 minutes Sherlock pulled open the door and swept in with his coat billowing behind him.

No one spoke during the entire taxi ride, the taxi driver obviously knew not to bother people getting a taxi home from a hospital.

Once they arrived back at 221B Sherlock left John to pay the fee and ran into the house.

“Thanks mate.”

Upstairs there was no sight of Sherlock, no sound of which room he would be in.

John tentatively pushed open the door to Sherlock's bedroom, but it was empty.

Then he went to his own bedroom, and curled into the middle of Johns bed clutching one of Johns jumpers was Sherlock.

He was crying, silently. Not even sniffling. 

John just curled around him, pulled the covers over them and waited for Sherlock to bed ready to talk.

“It’s mine.”

“What’s yours?”

“The DNA of the baby, it’s my DNA.”

He turned over and looked at John. Even with puffy red eyes and hair all fluffy and messy, he was still the most beautiful man John had ever seen. He knew what Sherlock was going to say next, but he hardly cared.

“The baby is mine. My child.”


	5. Chapter Five

“Yours?” John asked weakly, feeling his knees crumble to the floor.

He looked up at Sherlock, not the strong soldier, but like a small child who had been given the news his dog must be put down.

“Yours, as in you have a child? You are a father?”

“Yes John.” 

Sherlock refused to look at him, and John knew it was because he would worried that he would walk out of this door and never come back. He knew Sherlock was terrified that he may be left to care for a child he was so incapable of caring for. 

Christ! He’s still a child himself in so many ways.

“Sherlock, please.”

He didn’t know what he was asking for. Comfort? Solidarity? Just a look to tell him it was going to be okay?

“Sherlock, please. I’m not going anywhere.”

But he still did not turn around, so John did what most people would do and left to make a cup of tea.

He brought one back and placed it on the floor next to Sherlock's bed, but he hardly stirred, didn’t even notice John was in the room.

John noticed Sherlock had stripped off his clothes, he was now lying naked in the bed, covered by a blanket and still clutching Johns jumper. He picked up all of the clothes and placed them in the laundry basket before walking out of the room and gently closing the door.

John waited up, watching the clock tick slowly by, waiting for the moment that either Lestrade or Sherlock would call. Minutes passed by and nothing moved, even the dust that  
usually floated around the flat (damn Sherlock for not letting Mrs. Hudson clean) seemed to be completely still. 

He drank tea, scalding hot he poured it down his throat in moments and then made another cup. The searing pain kept him alert. It was no way to drink tea and John knew that, but at least he wouldn’t just fall asleep.

He stared blankly at the newspaper that was on top of the pile on the coffee table. None of it went in.

He walked around the room, pacing aimlessly, hardly even thinking, just repeating the same mantra.

“Sherlock has a child. I won’t leave. Sherlock has a child. I won’t leave.”

Neither of them were ready for fatherhood. Though it had always been part of Johns life plan, he had abandoned that dream after he fell in love with Sherlock. Sherlock wasn’t a people person, let alone a father person.

But now, he they had it, a child of Sherlock's.

A son? A daughter?

It didn’t matter. 

As long as they were healthy.

And god knows if that would be true, Irene Adler hadn’t led the most mundane of lives.

Shit! Would they be expected to take care of the funeral? Would there even be a funeral? Or will the police take care of it? Who should even be fucking informed of her death?!  
Suddenly John was overwhelmed with rage at Sherlock and his choice of friends…and himself. 

Couldn’t he just fall in love with a nice guy or girl who had normal fucking friends and didn’t have love affairs with bloody assassins! I mean really, was that too much to ask?! John berated himself, ranting unconsciously getting gradually worked up.

The birds started to sing, signalling the dawn but instead of proving John with comfort, they just fueled his anger even further.

Then there was a loud thud on the ground that shook through the flat and the rage left John almost instantaneously.

He ran to his room and saw Sherlock wasn’t on the bed. The window was shut and there was no way Sherlock could have left the flat without John’s notice. 

Then he saw how the blankets pulled off the left-hand side of the bed and assumed Sherlock had fallen off. He walked around and saw Sherlock lying flat on his face on the floor.

“Oh, come on now.”

He pulled the dead weight onto the bed, Sherlock's naked body was freezing to the touch and John was filled with a sick feeling of fear. He checked Sherlock's pulse, it was hardly there; faint and irregular. His breathing was shallow but seemed okay. 

Then he saw the crushed needles lying on the floor. 

Four. 

Likely they shattered when Sherlock fell.

He tried to do the addition in his head but the sickness was overwhelming him and it was difficult to concentrate on anything but the lifeless form he held in his arms.  
“Get a grip John. You need to save him. Save the life.”

Adrenalin kicked in and suddenly his army doctor instant took over. He lay Sherlock in the recovery position and worked out that four needles would generally hold about 400ml. He guessed that from Sherlock's history that would be either of cocaine or heroin, both of which only need about 200ml to kill a virgin user. But Sherlock was not a virgin user, he probably still had some resistance built up in him, but he had probably way overestimated how much resistance. He remembered some of the young men that he treated who had taken over 1000ml and survived…just. But Sherlock hadn’t used in a long time and was probably struggling to survive after taking just 400, and that was even assuming he hadn’t done anything else.

“Sherlock, you fool. You can’t leave me again. Don’t leave me. Please. Why did you do this?! Why did I leave you?”

John knew the tears were still rolling down his face but also knew he had do call someone and quick.

He rang Lestrade, the only person he could think of in this situation.

“John, I promised to-“

“Sherlock's overdosed, natural gut feeling would be 400ml of heroin but it could be cocaine. I’m guessing it was maybe 30 minutes ago to an hour, long enough for it to get into his system but not long enough to kill him, please god I hope not.” He delivered the facts in a monotonous voice, trying to steady the flow of tears.  
“Shit, fuck. I’m already in my car. Ambulance is on their way. Stay calm John, we’ll get him, it’ll be okay. The bastard will not leave us again.”

“Heart rate is at less than 50, pretty faint and irregular but still there. Body temperature is very cold, not sure specifically, I guess at around 35.5 degrees, maybe slightly more, I don’t trust myself to make a good judgement. I’ve covered him in as much as I can but I don’t know Greg. I don’t know what to do.”

“Keep talking John, stay on the phone to me but talk to him. Tell him everything you have wanted to tell him.”

John knew it wouldn’t work, but for some reason the words spilled out anyway.

“I hated him. For leaving me. I hated him, part of me did hope he was dead. But I knew he wasn’t. I could feel it. I told people he was dead, no one wants to be friends with a deluded ex best friend of Sherlock bloody Holmes. But I knew he wasn’t. He was too clever. Too good.

“I know he hates himself, he doesn’t think he is deserving of love. But oh god you are. You are so loved, by so many, and I am not letting you go. I am never letting you go. You cannot leave me and I will not leave you.

“We can raise this child if you want to. Or we can give them to someone who will love them and care for them. We can do whatever you want Sherlock but you cannot die. You cannot leave me like this. You have my heart, completely and utterly. And you have come so close to giving me yours, so please, for me, please get through this, please don’t give up.

“I never pictured myself with a man, and god not with one so obnoxious and rude and annoying and mad as you, but now that it is you and I have you…I cannot imagine anything else. You are all I want from life, exactly as you are. With your past and your history, with all your secrets and your annoying traits, all of it, I want all of it. I do not want you in spite of it…I love you because of it. I can love you so fully, I do love you so fully, that that is what makes you perfect. Not your hair or your cheekbones, but the way you show off and the way you walk with your coat collar turned up and the way you can understand everything about human behavior except love when it is in fact love that is such a strong part of you. And I know that because I have received your love and it is the best thing that I have ever been given.”

He sobbed over Sherlock, words lost him and instead sounds just mumbled around.

Then he felt warm arms around him and he heard Lestrade’s voice giving orders and commands and he felt himself being moved from the flat.

He woke up in the hospital, lying on a make-shift bed on the floor. He shifted uncomfortably and looked around, Sherlock was lying in the bed hooked up to IV’s and Lestrade was watching from the chair.

“How long?”

“Couple of hours. Doctors said he is stable.”

“Stats?”

“You were right, heroin overdose. I for one don’t think it was purposeful, he probably wasn’t thinking about the break-down of his normal resistance, but it certainly looks purposeful.” Lestrade offered him a sympathetic smile but only out of reflex. “Heart rate and body temperature are back to normal, he came off the ventilator a little while back. Still on the IV just to try and get the remainders out of his system.”

He felt his heart rise, then felt the bile rise and vomited right onto the scratchy blanket. He didn’t even care, just weakly apologised and grabbed the edge of the blanket to wipe his mouth before pushing it aside.

“The baby?”

“She’s doing good, it was touch and go, but apparently shes going to be okay if it continues like this…and the doctor thinks it will.”

With that fact John passed out again, his last thought was “We have a daughter, a daughter.”


End file.
